My mouth tastes as if something crawled in there and died. And emptied their bowels just before doing so. Which means my tongue is currently bathing in a sea consisting of feces and other bodily fluids from this rotting creature.

My head, oh, my dear, sweet, fucked up head; it's throbbing along with every pulsating heart beat, pushing me further and further into the pits of the Underworld. Having a pitchfork poking my arse would be a step up from this, I'm telling you.

I swear, I will willingly clean all the bedpans in the Hospital Wing for a shot of Madam Pomfrey's Pain-Relief Potion right about now. My whole entire body hurts; every little inch.

I know instantly what this means: I made some stupid decisions last night.

This is a feeling I'm all too familiar with.

"Hmmmph," I hear coming from right beside me, which only proves what I - on some level - already know.

Stupid decisions: exhibit A.

Someone is here with me. I can hear soft breathing, and feminine sleep-sighing(why do girls always do that?) coming from the other end of the bed.

Well, at least it's a female; a female and human.

I woke up next to Fang once(you know, Hagrid's dinosaur-dog?), and that was not a very fun experience. Now, that's a lie; it was fun to everyone but me. And Hagrid.

Our yeti of a gamekeeper still looks at me suspiciously whenever I'm near, and then calls out for Fang to 'go home'. I guess it's true what they say about how elephants never forget. *Badam-tssh!*

No, that was mean. I love Hagrid.

You know, in that manly, grunting, let's-go-off-and-kill-us-some-dinner sort of way.

"Ahmmh, meh," I hear coming from that other side.

I hate it when girls talk in their sleep(though it's nothing compared to what Fang did... I'd rather not discuss it if it's all the same to you), it unnerves me. Unless they're moaning my name; that is cool. Yeah, it's happened once or twice, I'm not gonna lie.

The annoying interruptions continue throughout my inner rantings, and I decide to open my eyes to assess the damage.

I brace myself for what I'll behold when I open my eyes, taking a deep breath through the nose(I don't want to get a fresh whiff of the toxic mass in my mouth) before slowly doing so.

With eyelids only halfway open, I look over to my left where I feel the bed is dipped by the weight of someone else.

Hell no. I suddenly get the sick need to run out of the room, and as far away from this person as Hogwarts's grounds will allow. Hell to the no!

Prongs will kill me.

And I mean that in the most literal sense of the word.

My best mate will track me down, stab me repeatedly with those horns of his(that he claims isn't horns, but who is he kidding; he looks like Satan), and impale me on the spear on the top of the Astronomy Tower. And then Avada Kedavra me for good measure.

I might as well spare him the trouble, and just throw myself out of my window now. The fall from the Gryffindor Tower is enough to do me in, right?

But as tempting as this thought is, my limbs won't listen to the man upstairs, and refuse to budge an inch. It takes too much of an effort just opening my eyes fully to reassure myself that what I've just seen is, in fact, real.

She is real, all right.

Her chest - with its cream-coloured skin speckled with tiny freckles - is rising and falling regularly under the thin sheets covering most of her upper body. One arm is - I just now realise - carelessly thrown across my chest, and the other is hidden beneath the pillow she's got her head on. I can't really make out her face, but it's not that which gives away her identity; it's her hair.

Her long, silky, always-shining, blood-red hair - which Prongs has been dreaming about touching for five years.

That same hair is now fanned across my pillow. On my bed.

How can even hair look like that? It's like too red. And the morning light is giving it this strange golden effect. I can't really see what Prongs constantly goes on about; it's just hair. Very red, sometimes gold-ish, a bit too long hair that seems to always be in the way. I mean, she brushes it away all the time, and if you are too close when she turns around quickly it whips right across your face. I don't particularly enjoy getting hair into my mouth or eyes, so make it a point to never get too close to her.

This annoys Prongs to no end because he always wants me to be his wingman when he tries to chat her up. To be honest, being the wingman of someone who is repeatedly turned down has lost its charm. In fact, it did a long time ago. The only thing that makes it bearable is finding out how the girl will shoot him down this time; she always changes it up, making it entertaining to watch.

My head hurts with all this thinking, and I instead let my slightly blurry vision wander down the body next to mine, confirming my worst fears.

The bird has no clothes on. No underwear, no socks, no nothing.

How do I know this?

The sheets aren't covering the lower part of her body.

Thank Merlin that all the others have gone home for the holidays, thus causing the dormitory to be empty. Especially since Prongs's bed is right beside mine, only about a foot separating us.

I can't even count all the times the bloke has kept me up going on and on for hours talking about the girl who at this moment lies beside me, stark naked.

My deranged mind loses its train of thought as I notice that this girl's drapes very much match the carpet, if you get my meaning. I have to bite my lip from barking out a laugh. A laugh that always makes Prongs laugh as well, no matter what mood he's in.

I seriously doubt that my laugh will help this time.

While I'm off in my own little, self-deprecating, suicidal world, the bird's abnormally red hair moves as her head shifts.

Did someone just cast a full-body-bind on me?

No?

I refuse to believe that. My body is frozen by magic, I know it.

A harsh patch of morning light shines on her closed eyes, which makes her eyelids flutter before she opens them into narrow slits. With a low groan - I guess from the same painful headache I'm also coping with - she turns her head to the side. Her freakishly green eyes pop open in a flash, and her jaw drops.

Along with that fire-resembling hair of hers, she has a pair of eyes that put green meadows to shame, and they look way too big for her face - it doesn't even make sense how large they are.

Do I think they're pretty, you ask? No. I find them scary. And I'm not easily scared; I'm a fearless creature, ask anyone.

Case in point: I've seen that muggle movie Ghostbusters like nine times with Wormtail. See? Fearless.

Those planet-sized, grass-coloured eyes are staring at me. I stare back.

This is awkward. And I'm no stranger to waking up with a bird on my arm, not knowing how the hell she got there, and trying to make small-talk when all I really want to do is escape the awkwardness.

But this... this is so awkward that it even puts the word 'awkward' to shame. I'm so uncomfortable in every way that a person can be uncomfortable; so much, in fact, that I'm once again contemplating jumping out of the window, just to get away. I bet it'll only hurt for a second.

"Sirius?" she croaks, her breath no better than my own. I would've covered my nose with my hand if it hadn't been for someone casting that damn spell on me.

She's looking bewildered, eyeing me as if she's just dreaming, and needs to assure herself that I'm not a figment of her imagination.

Sorry, love. But I'm as real as that hand you've got on top of my chest. Which, by the way, I'd appreciate if you removed.

Her breathing picks up, and I note the clear signs of a girl who's about to cry.

Don't you dare!

I quickly clear my throat.

"Morning, Evans."

I fucking hate firewhiskey.

-----A/N:

I just suddenly got the idea for this story, and I really like it so far! I hope you guys like it too :D